


15:  For What It's Worth

by light_source



Series: High Heat [15]
Category: Baseball RPF, Sports RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-15
Updated: 2011-08-15
Packaged: 2017-10-22 15:31:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/239561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/light_source/pseuds/light_source
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the drive back to his place in the Marina, Zito realizes Lincecum’s just struck him out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	15:  For What It's Worth

Tim flattens himself against the wall to allow Zito to slip past him through the entryway that’s really only wide enough for one. In the dense space between them, a current of heat rises; Tim can smell the wool of Zito’s sweater, damp from the evening wet, and the faint trace of his aftershave.

He follows Zito into the apartment. There’s a single oak school chair in the far corner, and Tim jerks his chin to indicate Zito should take it. It’s unpadded, and Zito quickly discovers there’s no comfortable way to sit in it except upright, at attention. Feeling like he’s in the principal’s office, he crosses his legs.

\- It’s monastic, this apartment, says Zito. - There should probably be one of those crucifixes on the wall above your bed.

Tim says nothing. Facing Zito, he drops to his knees in front of the heap of warm, clean laundry on the mattress and resumes sorting things into piles. He’s folding his travel button-downs deftly, methodically, snapping creases into the sleeves.

Zito, who hasn’t done his own laundry for years, is fascinated. Everything gets this treatment, even the jeans and sweatshirts.

\- Yeah, monastic’s a good word for it, says Tim eventually, thoughtfully, as though he’s answering a tough interview question. - It’s not exactly home.

He turns a sock right side out.

\- There’s no way of knowing how long I’ll be around, Lincecum continues. - I’ve probably moved seven or eight times in the last two years. That’s not gonna change anytime soon.

There’s no response to this that’s both true and kind, and Zito says nothing.

\- The crucifix on the wall thing, Tim says, - Reminds me of catechism. We went Wednesdays after school, at St. Athanasius. The friars, they were the ones who taught us, were getting ready to be priests. They had to take vows of poverty, chastity and obedience.

\- I guess being a baseball player’s probably not that different from being a monk, Lincecum continues. - At least until you’re arb-eligible and they’ve gotta pay you what you’re worth.

\- I was raised Catholic too, says Zito. - You still go to mass?

Lincecum shakes his head. - Guess you could say I declined their offer.

Zito smiles. - What put you off it, the chastity clause?

Tim’s forehead is furrowed, his mouth a straight line.

\- Guys like you who’ve been around awhile know what’s done, what’s not done, Tim says slowly, as though he’s choosing his words very carefully.

\- Someone like me, Lincecum continues, - the front office is already looking for reasons to send you back to Triple A. Mid-season, it’s starting to matter how near they are to five hundred. They can always bring you back up in September. Right now they might need a sure thing, some infielder with a good glove, and you’re taking up a roster slot.

He looks up suddenly at Zito.

\- But you’re beyond worrying about that kind of stuff, Tim says. - With your contract.

There’s no mistaking what Tim’s talking about. They both know the stories, just like they know the names, of the guys who’ve been traded or waivered or DFA’d or even released, no matter how well they were doing, for reasons that aren’t discussed.

Finished folding the laundry, Tim rocks back on his haunches, propped on his heels. He catches his lower lip in his teeth.

Zito’s eyes flicker up from the floor and meet Tim’s.

\- So you’re saying? asks Zito.

\- I’m not sure what I’m saying, says Tim. For the first time, Zito notices how tired he looks, the grin lines on his cheeks and around his eyes carved out by weariness.

\- C’mon, says Zito. - Let’s take a walk. This chair’s driving me crazy. Where’d you get this thing, off the street? It’s the worst fucking chair in the fucking history of chairs.

Zito stands up, takes the oak chair by its top rail, and drags it across the floor. He opens the nearest window and pretends he’s about to toss out the offending object. When he sees there’s a fire escape outside the window, he changes his mind, and in earnest he hurls the chair over the sill and out the window. It clatters onto its side on the metal grille of the fire escape.

Lincecum cracks a smile.

\- Go ahead and throw it out the window, he says cheerfully. - Just don’t kill anybody, OK? On league minimum I can’t afford the insurance settlement.

Tim’s hauling a black fleece quarter-zip over his head.

\- You’re never gonna shut up about money, are you? says Zito.

\- If you’re gonna stick around, you’ll have to learn to put up with it, says Lincecum.

//

The rain’s stopped, but there’s been a steady drizzle all day and the water’s pooled on the sidewalks. When they emerge through the entry of his apartment building, Tim scuffs his sneaker through a puddle. They turn off Eighteenth and strike off up the hill, Zito shortening his stride a little to pace Tim, who’s walking more slowly. When their shoulders accidentally bump, Lincecum’s quick to veer off to the left.

\- What’s up with you tonight? asks Zito.

\- You have a reputation, is the other thing, is what’s up, says Tim. It’s late, and he’s hardly making sense, even to himself.

\- For what?

\- How can I say this. For being involved elsewhere, says Tim.

Zito turns and walks backwards, keeping pace, toe-to-toe with Lincecum.

\- So that’s what you’re upset about, says Zito.

\- Not upset. More like considering, says Lincecum, looking straight uphill at Zito, his eyes narrowed and his jaw set.

When they reach the top of the hill and the sidewalk levels off, Zito stops abruptly, and Lincecum feints off to the right, neatly avoiding the block. Then he spins around and they’re facing each other. Zito’s breathing a little hard, and Lincecum’s got his hands on his hips. The mist has turned to a soft rain, and their hair and shoulders are darkened with wet, but neither seems to notice.

\- What you’re talking about. That’s been over for more than a year, says Zito.

Lincecum says nothing, but raises his eyebrows.

\- I’m not a fuck buddy, Barry, he says evenly. - I don’t believe in that shit. ‘Friends with benefits.’ Jesus _fuck_. That’s for people who don’t know what they want.

\- You need to know this about me, he continues. - When I’m in it, I’m in it. I don’t always play, but when I do, I know the costs. And this is one I probably can’t afford. For a bunch of reasons.

Zito’s silent. He knows nothing he says will come out right.

On the drive back to his place in the Marina, Zito realizes Lincecum’s just struck him out.

//

The summer’s been unusually rainy, and the ground’s so wet that Zito wishes he’d brought his spikes. But it’s too late for that, he thinks as they clamber up the duff-covered basalt and schist, tacking just this side of the trail. Loosened stones and twigs squirt out behind his toes, and every once in a while he has to grab a root or a branch or a sapling to keep himself keyed into the slope. His shirt’s soaked with sweat and his heart’s hammering in his throat but it’s good, it feels good to push so hard. Every step puts him further away from what he’s been trying to shake.

They scramble up quickly, silently, to the ridge top, where the mountain slips gently away on either side of the trail like the sleek strong back of a horse. When he gets to a spot marked by a cairn, Zito turns off the trail and glissades down the slope, one knee half-bent underneath him, till he comes to rest on a lichen-blotched outcropping. The rock feels warm under his hands.

As his breath finally begins to settle, he sucks down the second-to-the-last bottle of water from his pack. The hillside’s giving off late afternoon warmth, and the grasses, their heavy heads ripening in the summer sun, smell like apples.

\- What is it about this place, Danny? shouts Zito up the hill to his companion.

Haren’s negotiating the downslope a little more cautiously, since he’s showering Zito with scree as he slides.

\- Incoming artillery! says Haren as he reaches the rock and carefully drops down next to Zito against the outcropping, their knees up, thighs and arms touching.

They sit there for awhile without talking, soaking in the slanting light. Zito’s always found Haren easy to be with. The big right-hander is one of the slowest-moving, most laid-back guys he’s ever met. Till Haren gets out on the mound, that is, and the intensity of his release knocks the feet out from under the toughest batters.

When Dan had arrived in Oakland in 2005 - he’d been the only sweetener in the brutal Mark Mulder trade - Zito had been struck by an unshakeable feeling that Haren wasn’t a stranger, that they’d already met. Later, Haren had confessed he felt the same way. Ever since, they’ve joked that they’re twin sons of different mothers.

But it’s not really a joke. Haren’s part of him, the best part.

And of course he hates Haren for getting the blue eyes in the family.

\- I know you been missing me, you motherfucker, says Haren.

He smiles, but Zito’s not meeting his eyes.

\- Fuck you, says Zito. - I’ve totally forgotten about you. Out of sight, out of mind.

\- You’re a liar and a fraud, Barry Zito, says Haren, - but you’re so fuckin’ charming you get away with it. How _does_ that work?

Zito smiles at him sideways.

\- How’s married life, Mr. Haren? he asks. He leans forward, raises his eyebrows, and looks over at Dan.

Haren pulls up his pant leg and spends a long time inspecting some road rash he’s given himself sliding down the hillside.

\- It is, he says at length. - All I hoped and dreamed it would be. Truly.

\- And you said _I_ was a liar and a fraud, says Zito.

\- But I don’t have the charm, the Zito charm that makes it all OK, says Haren.

\- The fuck you don’t, says Zito.

//

\- So what’re you having for breakfast these days? asks Zito.

He and Lincecum are literally hanging out, their arms over the dugout lip at AT&T. This night has had so many annoying aspects. It’s Barry Bonds’s forty-third birthday, he’s chasing the home-run record but he’s not homering, it’s twelve-thirty and the top of the thirteenth and fuck, Atlanta’s on fire at the last minute.

\- What? says Lincecum, not sure he’s heard right.

\- I’m thinking I should start eating it too, whatever it is, says Zito.

\- Wheaties, says Lincecum with mock seriousness. - I figure the more boxes I eat, the faster I’m getting my face on the front of the box.

Something’s different about Lincecum since June, and Zito’s not entirely joking when he says he wants to know the secret. Lincecum’s been striking out batters and pitching well to contact, but there’s more to it than that. There’s a new arrogance about him. The scared-kid look he’s sometimes had on the mound has vanished.

He’s playing like he doesn’t really care what happens. A couple weeks ago in St. Louis, when he was on second and Randy Winn singled, Lincecum rounded third and decided to go for it, pop-up slide, even though Tim Flannery was screaming at him to hold up. In the outfield, Pujols’d even held up on the throw, assuming like everyone else that Lincecum would do as he was told.

And the run wound up making a difference in the game.

In the post-game, when the reporters chided him for blowing off the third-base coach, Tim just smiled like the newly cheeky little bastard he is and said _\- Let’s talk about my hit._

//

Zito probably shouldn’t be surprised, then, when Tim calls him and tells him he’s standing outside Zito’s place in the Marina, and can Barry come out and play?

It’s early on a Sunday morning, and Zito’s in the kitchen reading the pink section of the  _Chronicle_ and drinking his third cup of coffee. He grabs his cup and walks out to the front bay window, and sure enough, there’s Lincecum, standing on the sidewalk with a shit-eating grin on his face. When Zito unbolts the door, Lincecum charges up the steps and blows past him like a dog with a bird in its mouth.

\- I been wanting to say that for years, says Lincecum. - Remember how that’s how we used to do it? When you were a kid. You just showed up and rang the doorbell. Or you met up in the street and went home when the streetlights came on.

Zito smiles and shakes his head. - What’d you have in mind?

\- I’m thinking long toss, Presidio. Or I got a frisbee in my backpack.

\- I can’t. I’ve got some shoulder soreness, have to stay off it till Tuesday.

Lincecum rolls his eyes. - Well, fuck. He drops down into one corner of the couch like all the air’s gone out of him.

Zito sits down on the opposite end and puts one foot up on the ottoman. He’s taken a couple of Vicodin to knock down the shoulder pain, and he’s feeling tired and calm and quiet. He hasn’t forgotten their late-night conversation in the rain; it’s Tim’s job, he decides, to make the next gesture.

Slowly the silence begins to stretch between them.

Lincecum’s toed off his Vans, and he reaches over with one bare foot and pokes Zito in the thigh.

\- I’m sorry for being such a hardass, he says. - I give you credit.

Zito shrugs. - For what? he says. He rubs his eyes; too much coffee, not enough sleep.

\- What you said, Zito continues - that was the professional in you talking.

\- About your reputation, says Lincecum. - It means you have a life outside baseball. More than you can say for me.

\- _Had,_ says Zito.

Lincecum rolls his eyes, smiles, and shakes his head. He brings his other leg up onto the couch and presses both feet against Zito’s thigh, giving him a playful shove.

But Zito doesn’t respond, doesn’t look at him, and Tim bends forward, snaps his knees underneath himself, and crawls over to Zito’s end of the couch. And then Tim leans in, so close Zito can see the freckles, spots of darkness beneath Tim’s pale skin.

\- I wish I could say I’ve stopped thinking about you, Lincecum says.

He’s looking at Zito’s mouth, and then at his eyes, his own lips parted.

He smells like toothpaste and the kind of sweat that’s just water, boy sweat, and he’s waiting there to be kissed.

When their lips meet, the past month fades away like a bad dream, and the pain in Zito’s shoulder lightens and dissolves, and the newspaper he’s been holding falls to the floor.


End file.
